The Demand
by prettyedsilence
Summary: "I was right in the middle of a nice cup of tea and the paper when Sherlock Holmes walked in and demanded that I..." Holmes/Watson slash, no spoilers. Smut.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Usually I'm not a fan of straight-up slash when it comes to Holmes and Watson, but this idea hit me over the head and I just had to write it. Hope you enjoy! Stay tuned, there's at least two more chapters coming if people end up liking it.**

I was right in the middle of a nice cup of tea and the paper when Sherlock Holmes walked in and demanded that I fuck him.

"WHAT?" I spat out a mouthful of tea all over the Prime Minister's face and my new trousers. Dripping wet and sputtering, I spun around to face him. "Have you gone completely mental, Sherlock?"

"No, no I haven't, John." He narrowed his eyes at me and frowned. I hated it when he did that. It was his little way of implying that I was an idiot to have suggested something without evidence. "Now, will you please remove your clothes? Or shall I?"

"Oh no." I got out of my chair and started to move toward the wall, my hand held out in front of me to ward him off. "There is something definitely wrong here. Is this one of your little games? Because I swear to God, Sherlock…"

Sherlock made an impatient noise and swept out one of his long, thin arms.

"John, look. I have decided that it is time that I take part in this aspect of… human nature. You are the obvious choice to do it with, and you are going to say yes." He shrugged off his jacket and began to loosen his thin black tie.

"No no no, wait!" My voice was slightly panicked. "That's not… I'm not… what? Why am I the perfect choice? I'm not – God, you know I'm not even gay, Sherlock!"

Sherlock set the tie down on the coffee table and sat in his chair. He began unbuttoning his shirt.

"Because, John. You are my friend. My only friend, in fact. I… trust you." He wrinkled his nose as if the notion was distasteful to him. "And in return, for once, you will get to teach me something."

The shirt was slowly coming all the way unbuttoned, revealing the pale skin underneath. He really needed a tan. A holiday! Maybe that's what we needed. We could go to a resort, or on a- a cruise! and Holmes could find something to completely occupy his mind other than…

Sherlock had cocked his head to the side and was squinting at me.

"Are you thinking of taking me to a resort?" he asked, his tone amused.

"Stop that," I snapped automatically. I backed behind my chair, keeping it between us.

"Sherlock, we're friends, yes. Best friends, in fact, well, some might say… Anyway, the point is, that's exactly why this is a terrible idea. Friendships never come out of this sort of thing intact; it just doesn't work." A sudden thought drew me up short. "And by the way, I thought you weren't gay?"

"I'm not." Sherlock pulled the shirt off his shoulders and slid it down his arms. Pulled his arms out of the sleeves. Now he was shirtless. "But I am interested in you." His long fingers started on his pants…

"No, stop!" I yelled. "Stop taking your clothes off, okay, I can't think like this!"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Excited already?" A hint of a smile tugged around the corners of his lips.

I glared at him. "What? I mean – no, NO! Of course not!" I rubbed my hand over my face, trying to think of the right thing – anything – to say.

His fingers stopped moving. There was a pause before he looked up at me.

"So – you're not interested in me," he said. His voice was quiet, tinged with sadness. His pale blue eyes stared up at me, suddenly looking huge.

"What? I – no, no, Sherlock, I didn't mean it like that."

"It's fine," Sherlock said shortly. He started to re-button his pants and shoved one arm through the sleeve of his shirt. He didn't look at me. "I suppose I didn't really think you'd be interested; it's not like anyone else has been…"

"Wait, hang on." I came out from around the chair and crouched down next to his feet, looking up into his face. "That's not what I meant at all. You've had – you've had loads of people interested in you. Look at Irene! What about that, er, Molly?" I remembered how Sherlock had treated her at the last Christmas party and hoped desperately that Molly was the forgiving sort.

Sherlock shook his head. His fingers slipped on the clasp of his pants. Was he shaking? "Gay; only interested because she knows I never will be. The instant I started to return her affection, Molly would run screaming and you know it." He glared at me.

I hadn't known her very long, but I suspected Sherlock had a point about Molly. She looked like the kind of girl that had never really graduated primary school.

"Well, that's just because you haven't tried, alright?" I craned my neck to get him to look at me. "When was the last time you chatted a girl up over a pint, eh? Or, or asked a colleague out for a drink?"

"DAMMIT, JOHN!" Sherlock exploded. He leaped out of his chair, leaving me sitting on the floor, staring up at him as he clenched his fists in rage. "I don't want any of that, don't you see? I can't – I can't do that, okay? All the talking, and their dull little lives, and their meaningless ambitions…" He wrinkled his nose and flapped his hand, imitating these poor boring people's conversations.

"I can't do it, John, alright? I don't want to do it." Now his eyes bored into mine, blazing and relentless. "I just want you."

"But… I'm not gay," I almost whimpered, grasping at any last shreds of sanity. How had this conversation veered so far off course?

Sherlock knelt down next to me, his nose just a couple of inches from mine.

"I told you, neither am I. But you and I… we're something different, aren't we?" He tilted his head and reached out one pale, long-fingered hand toward my face. I felt like I was held in a vise. All my instincts screamed out for me to move, but I couldn't.

Sherlock's cold fingers touched my face, and his pale lips curved up into a smile. And in that instant, I knew I had lost.

He stood up, and somehow I was standing up with him. We were very close together, though we weren't quite touching. But I could feel faint heat coming off his body and seeping into mine like electric shocks.

Sherlock's face was next to mine, so close that our lips were almost touching, though they didn't.

"Yes," he murmured. "We're different, aren't we? Admit it. In some way, you wanted this. You've been waiting for it."

"What? I – I don't understand." My head felt fuzzy and all I could focus on were his hands, his hips, his lips almost touching me. We were so close. I could feel us about to touch. When was it going to happen?

"Allow me to show you, then."

Sherlock pulled me with him a few feet across the floor so that we were standing over the sofa. Somehow, he did it so that our bodies stayed close, just barely brushing each other, his pale blue eyes boring into mine.

We hovered there over the sofa for a minute before I saw the nervous twitch in his lip, and the uncertainty in his eyes. Of course. I was the experienced professional; he was waiting for me to make a move.

Now remember, he's a virgin, John Watson, my mind admonished me as I reached a gentle hand up and slid it around the back of his head. Be gentle with him. He's probably never even been kissed before.

Our lips had just touched when I decided I had to know.

"Have you… ever done this?" Our lips brushed against each other as I talked. It was very distracting.

"What? I… what?" Sherlock sounded a bit dazed, almost. "No. Now get on with it." That demanding tone sounded more like the Sherlock I knew.

I smiled slightly and leaned in, tugging on the back of his head and sliding one hand around his small waist to pull him into me.

The kiss was shocking; like nothing I'd ever had before. It was like I was aware of every molecule, every hair on my head and every atom of skin touching Sherlock's. And at the same time, we were both melting into the kiss, opening our mouths until our tongues touched. He made a noise in his throat and bit my lip.

My fingers dug into his waist and his long arms wrapped around my shoulders and neck, pressing himself so tightly to me that I could barely breathe. I didn't want to breathe. I broke away and took short, gasping pants to recover while Sherlock whimpered and leaned into me, wanting more.

At some point I noticed Sherlock's hands on my shirt, trembling violently but managing somehow to undo the buttons. I tore it off the rest of the way, leaving me standing there in just my jeans. I wasn't sure how it had happened, but Sherlock's pants had come off after all and he was pulled close to me in just his boxers.

"C… couch?" I gasped. Sherlock nodded fervently and flung himself down, pulling me on top.

The couch proved to be a dangerous proposition. In these close quarters our bodies clung together and our limbs entwined. I found my knee nudging one of Sherlock's legs away from the other, exposing his bulging package.

Sherlock was flat-out moaning now, and not quietly; it crossed my mind that a neighbor might hear. But I didn't care. I didn't care about anything except having him, all of him, right here and right now.

When I took a moment to breathe, I saw Sherlock's tousled hair and stunned expression and scolded myself. Slow down, John Watson! The voice in my mind shouted at me. You're doing this too fast; it's too much for him.

In the small, quiet part of my brain that still made sense, I couldn't understand what I was doing. Sherlock was my flatmate; my friend. And I wasn't gay. Never had been, not at all. There wasn't anything wrong with it – I lived in London for God's sake – but it had never been my cup of tea. Hell, even if I had been gay, I couldn't imagine that Sherlock Holmes would be my type. He was strange and pale and awkward, and he kept frozen heads in my fridge.

And yet, here I was, kneeling over my friend's exposed body, ready to reach into his boxers, draw out his cock and toy with him until he was spent. Not only that, I wanted to do it. Needed to do it. Sherlock was right – I had been waiting for this.

Softer now, I leaned forward and kissed his lips. It was deep, but slower this time. Sherlock tried to reach for my hair, but I caught his arms and pinned them down beside him.

"John," he whimpered. "Please."

Ignoring him, I kissed his jawbone. Then I worked my way down his neck to his collarbone. I kissed and licked my way down the side of his chest, eliciting a surprised, "Oh!" when I sucked on his hard nipple.

The further down I got, the more Sherlock started to squirm. I kissed his waist, and the "V" of bone showing under the skin there, and slowly drew his boxers off over his legs, trying not to bounce him more than I had to. At this rate, and this his first time, I wasn't sure how much longer he could last.

Sherlock's cock was so engorged it looked painful; purple and oozing pre-cum at the top. He was cut, which surprised me for some reason, though it shouldn't have. In fact, it looked a little like him, severe and ramrod straight.

"For God's sake, Watson!" Sherlock moaned. He didn't try to touch himself, but I saw his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

I smiled wickedly down on him, making sure he saw it.

"Oh, don't worry," I told him. "I'm getting there."

Then I dove back down and started to kiss all around the area – his thighs, the sensitive skin just above the crotch, the place where his legs joined his torso.

Sherlock couldn't control himself by this time; he was jerking his hips up and down and moaning my name and various pleas. "John, John, do it, please, please, I need it, I need you…"

I took another moment just to watch his face, twisted in painful agony, and then I leaned back down and licked the tip of his cock.

Instantly, Sherlock went still and his eyes went large. Clearly, this was something unexpected.

"I… I thought…" Sherlock sounded like he was fighting to summon up his reason. "I thought we were going to…"

"The first time?" My face probably looked as shocked as I felt. "That's not right. You're not… no, you can't. This is enough."

A look came over Sherlock's face like he got when he found a clue, and he stared at me hard for a second before he seemed to let it go, and sank his head back down on the sofa.

"Just do it, please," he begged.

I gulped. I'd definitely never done this before, but it seemed easy enough in theory. Up and down, don't use teeth. Oh, and don't gag. Squeeze tight with my mouth.

Well, here goes nothing, I thought, and swallowed my friend's cock.

It was warm, warm and hard but soft at the same time. When I went down on it the first time, Sherlock cried out my name so loud that I was sure the neighbors were going to come knocking on my door.

I pulled up, grabbing some breath, and went back down again. Sherlock was rambling incoherently, grabbing at the sofa and my hair. It hurt, but in a good way. Even though I should have been focused on my task, I couldn't stop watching him. Seeing him writhe on the sofa, hips bucking and head tossing, was amazing. I could feel my own cock almost ready to go, and resisted the urge to touch it.

As I'd predicted, Sherlock couldn't last long. It only took three or four minutes before he gasped, "My God, John!" and hot liquid spurted into my mouth.

I froze, taken by surprise, but then swallowed it before I had time to think. It didn't taste bad; bit salty.

I sat up on my knees and surveyed Sherlock with a satisfied smile, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. He looked so absolutely shattered. It was the sexiest thing I'd ever seen in my life.

Sherlock's head rolled toward me.

"You," he moaned.

"Me?"

He waved a hand at me. "Yes, you, you're still…"

I glanced down at my swollen, leaking dick. Yeah, I needed to cum badly, but Sherlock was in no state to help me out.

I shook my head. "No, but…" I lifted it in one hand and pointed it at his chest. "You mind?"

Sherlock shook his head and collapsed back, staring at the ceiling.

For some reason, cumming onto Sherlock Holmes's chest was exactly what I wanted. I heard myself make a few noises as I rubbed, but I came quickly, especially when my dick grazed his chest. The hot white cum shot out of me and left a trail up his chest, almost reaching the hollow at the base of his collarbone.

Sherlock leaned his head up to look. Unconsciously, as if he was simply curious, he slid a finger through the cum and licked it off his finger.

"Oh, God, no, Sherlock," I gasped, collapsing on my side half on top of him. "Don't do that; you'll just start me up again."

His eyes slid to look at me instantly. I could see he was quickly becoming himself again.

"You find this attractive?" he asked. He reached down again and put a finger coated in the stuff into his mouth. This time, though, he licked and sucked the finger, closing his eyes and acting like it was the best thing I'd ever tasted.

By this time, I was rock hard again against his leg.

"Oh no, no," I panted. Sherlock laughed and reached a hand down, skimming the length of my body. His fingers were still shaking.

I stopped him, and he looked at me questioningly.

"I just…" I paused. I didn't know how to tell him that in spite of what we'd just done here, he still seemed like such an innocent to me. Well, about this. I didn't want to somehow take advantage.

Fortunately, I never had to finish the sentence, because at that moment Sherlock yelled, "OF COURSE!" and leaped off the sofa. I fell forward and caught myself.

"Of course, what?" I asked, bewildered.

"Of course!" he shouted, holding his hands up in the air. "The woman went to the bar, but she never went inside. She was only waiting for someone."

My eyes widened. "You're… you're talking about a case? You just figured out a – hang on, was this all… was this somehow about a case?"

Sherlock glanced at me and frowned. "What? No. Of course not. But I've just realized something." He grabbed his pants and my shirt off the ground. "I need to go down to the station. Molly has something that I have to look at."

"A body," I said, resigned.

"Of course." Luckily that shirt was big on me, so it almost looked right on him except for the checkered pattern. He paused and looked at me again, more slowly this time. "You… er… you stay… here. We'll, um… later." He stumbled backwards over a pile of books and strode out of the flat without another word.

I crossed my arms behind my head and stared up at the ceiling. I tried to process what had just happened. What had just happened?

The door swung open. I didn't bother to move. Sherlock probably wouldn't even say anything, just grab whatever he'd forgotten and leave.

Hang on a tick. When did Sherlock forget anything?

"Oh – Lord, John, I'm sorry!" Lestrade blustered, wide-eyed, trying to look anywhere but at me. "I just needed to get – okay, I should go. I'm going."

"Sorry, sorry!" I shouted, grabbing the closest thing to me and pulling it up to cover myself. Sherlock's coat. The bloody moron had taken mine instead. "I… um, this isn't what it…"

The door slammed shut. I slumped back against the sofa and groaned.

This was definitely not going to help with the rumors.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Uh-oh, we seem to be developing a bit of a plot! Hopefully it's not too distracting. ;)**

Four weeks passed, and Sherlock never once brought up what happened that afternoon.

I probably should have been relieved. After all, no matter what had or hadn't happened that day, I was straight. And living with the man. And chasing after him at all hours when he needed something. It was not exactly ideal conditions for any kind of relationship, even one purely based on sex.

But I had to confess to a certain restlessness.

It was probably because the situation had been so unusual. I'd been accosted by my flatmate – the same one who insisted that he was married to his work, ha! – and convinced that it was a good idea that I fuck him. It was not a good idea. It was a terrible idea. But it had happened, because never once had I said no to Sherlock Holmes

Now, I couldn't sleep.

Well, that wasn't strictly true. I could sleep, but only once I fulfilled certain… urges.

See, the problem with living with a one-night-stand is that you had to see them everywhere, doing everything. I saw Sherlock on his way out of the shower, with a towel draped around his feet because he'd forgotten it in his quest to grab a book he suddenly needed off the shelf. I heard him moan during his stretching exercises when he meditated on something. I felt him brush up against me when he stretched past at the sink, wanting something out of the cupboard.

And yet, Sherlock never once mentioned it. That night he had come walking in, dropped my shirt and coat on the floor, and gone upstairs without a word. Radio silence for the next four weeks.

Oh, we talked, but not about the only thing I really wanted to talk about. I told him about current events, the number of hits on the blog, and who I was dating this week. Sherlock talked about German writers, how to find a good Chinese restaurant, and the details of the case.

No need to mention the mind-blowing sex, then.

Eventually I had to put it down to the sad fact that it just hadn't been as good for him as it had been for me. It made sense; Sherlock was a sociopath or whatever it was that made him so ungodly annoying. He just didn't feel things that way. It had been an experiment, and it hadn't gone well.

Except… except that I could still hear him moaning my name, bucking his hips, begging for more. Surely I couldn't have imagined that?

Unless it had all just been an act, playing up to human nature for his own twisted reasons.

By the end of the month, I was strung-out and permanently irritated. I liked to think that it was because of Holmes's immaturity in failing to ever discuss what had happened, but that was such a lie that even my own brain wouldn't entertain it for long. First off, I could've brought it up just as easily. And secondly, I didn't need him to bring it up again.

I just needed to do it again.

My cock was sore, rubbed raw; I had no clean socks anymore. I desperately wanted to fuck Sherlock Holmes, and I wasn't going to be able to focus on anything until it either happened again, or I got some space.

So when Donovan asked me to house-sit, it was perfect timing. I suppose she thought I'd take care of the place, and at the same time it would get me some distance from "the freak". For once, we wanted the same thing, though for different reasons.

"Where are you taking that overnight bag, John?" Sherlock snapped as I started to walk out the door.

I frowned, confused. "What do you mean? I told you, I'm house-sitting for Sally."

"What?" he demanded. His forehead was furrowed and his eyes were narrowed. Not happy. "Why on earth would you do that?"

"Because… she asked me to? And someone has to do it?"

Sherlock huffed out an irritated noise. "Alright, well, for how long?"

"A week."

"A week?" Sherlock looked at me as if I was crazy.

I nodded. "Yup, a week. So… I'll seeya then."

"You're going? Now?" Incredulous.

"Yes," I said, trying to keep the exasperation out of my voice. "I am going, now, and I am house-sitting for Sally. So have fun with your little experiments, try to eat, and don't blow up my bedroom while I'm gone." Then I fled, before I could entertain the very tempting notion that he might beg me to stay.

Five days later, I was standing at a crime scene, waiting on Sherlock Holmes for once. I checked my watch surreptitiously.

"He'll be here soon enough," Lestrade said. He stared at me, looking puzzled. "By the bye, how come you're here without…"

Sherlock strode onto the scene, walking straight through the plastic barriers. His face was angry and his eyes were locked on me. I gulped.

"You took the computer," he glowered.

I raised my eyebrows and fought back a smile. "Yes, well, it is _my _computer, so I think I'm well within my rights to do so."

"I need it!"

"For what?"

His glare intensified. "For when I don't want to walk into the kitchen." I threw my head back and groaned. What could you even say to someone like that?

"Uh, boys?" Lestrade looked nervous; he was shifting his weight from foot to foot. "Did you have some kind of… domestic?"

"No," I said, at the same time Sherlock said, "Yes."

I stared at him. "What do you mean, yes?" I cried. "I'm house-sitting for Sally. That's not exactly a brick through the window, is it?"

"Oh thank God," Lestrade said in the background.

Sherlock stepped closer and loomed over me, using his full height to every advantage. "You have upset my working conditions."

I sputtered, "Upset them? I haven't even been there!"

"Precisely."

We glared at each other until Lestrade coughed into his fist and shuffled.

"Holmes? Dr. Watson? There is a body here, you know."

"Oh right, yes of course." I turned around, rubbing my nose. Stupid of me to get drawn into this, especially when I didn't even know what Sherlock was on about.

Sherlock was quiet, and stayed quiet through the viewing of the crime scene, until he seemed to reach some kind of breaking point and spewed out information about the _obviousness_ of the killer until I definitely wasn't the only one who wanted to throttle him.

The two of us waited for the scans to run in an off-shoot of the main corridor. Sherlock for his own reasons; me because this was what I generally did, following Sherlock.

"Boring," he muttered, not looking at me. "Boring, boring, boring. Everything is boring!"

"I'm standing right here, you know," I said through gritted teeth. I'd known him for what seemed like ages, and yet sometimes even I marveled at how insensitive he could be.

"Dull," he pronounced. His eyes had a manic tinge to them. "Boring, boringer, boringest. Need I belabor the point furth - "

His words cut off when I grabbed him, wrenched open the first door I found, and thrust him inside.

It was a small lab room, with an operating table on one side and a long, built into the wall desk with a sink on the other. This clearly belonged to the interns, or anybody unlucky enough to piss off someone important.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock demanded. Without answering, I thrust him up against the desk and kissed him.

The kiss was hot; electric; it burned me, starting with my mouth and searing all the way down to my feet. It wasn't better than last time, exactly, but it was different. There was a month of anticipation behind this kiss and I wasn't gentle. I shoved my body into his and opened his mouth with my tongue, thrusting inside before pulling back and nipping his lip.

Sherlock was bent backwards over the desk, though not far enough to hurt, gripping at the edges of it with his gloved hands. He didn't struggle; didn't fight; didn't seem to move much at all but to follow the kiss. I thought I heard him mumble my name into my lips, but I wasn't sure and I couldn't stop to check.

Still kissing him, I pulled my body apart from his and began to undo the buttons on his shirt. His hand reached up, and I batted it away with a growl. I didn't want it off; I just wanted it hanging open.

Next came the pants. It was a struggle to undo the zipper because he was already so stiff against the fabric. I heard him moan and hoped it was out of pleasure, not because I was yanking too hard.

I stepped back and looked at him. Sherlock immediately leaned forward after me, but I shoved him back and growled, "Stay!" as I quickly undid my own pants.

After I freed my aching cock, I took a moment to look at Sherlock. He was leaning his back into the edge of the desk like he needed the support, though it couldn't be comfortable, fingers still gripping the edge on either side of his body. His legs dangled down at odd angles, like he wasn't using them at all to stay upright. The dark shirt he had on was lying open, and the strip of skin I could see was just as sexy as I'd thought it would be. Below, his long cock throbbed impatiently.

His mouth was red and swollen from my harsh kisses, and his eyes looked dazed, though it was hard to see them properly because they were trained on my dick. I realized with a jolt that he desperately wanted it.

"That's right," I said roughly. I stepped forward and pushed him into the desk even harder. He groaned, and I knew from the sound that he liked it, liked this. I swallowed, wetting my dry throat. God help me, I liked it too.

"So. Do you want it?" Our dicks were close. If one of us jutted our hips forward, they would touch. Tempting, but I needed to restrain myself for just a few seconds more.

"Want… what?" Sherlock asked, sounding dazed. Precise, even at this moment. I had to hand it to him.

I grabbed his chin in my hand and forced his eyes downward. His lips parted as he stared.

"Yes," he moaned. "Yes."

I forced his eyes back up so they were looking into mine. "Yes, what?"

He blinked slowly, like his brain was misfiring. The effect was so sensual that I wanted to take him right then. Resisting was impossibly difficult.

"Yes… please?" he asked tentatively.

"Wrong." I shook my head and took a tiny step back. He panicked.

Gloved hands flew forward to clasp my shoulders. "No, wait, I can get it! Yes, your cock." I shook my head. "Yes, I want you to fuck me." Another shake. "Yes, I need this."

I sighed, attempting to sound sorrowful. "Sherlock, I don't think you're even trying."

"I am!" He sounded frustrated and desperate at the same time; a powerful combination. "I am, John, please! I - "

"Almost there," I teased him.

His eyes widened in triumph. "Yes, John!"

"Aren't you a good boy?" I murmured as I pulled our bodies together again. A shiver of relief, or anticipation, went through him.

I circled my cock with my thumb and forefinger, and did the same to Sherlock's with my remaining digits.

"How badly do you want this, hmm?" I smiled.

"Yes, John," he panted. I smiled and shook my head at him. His eyes focused, recalling what I had just asked. It wasn't really in my plan, but I flicked my middle finger up and smeared his pre-cum over the head of his cock.

"Ahhhhnn," Sherlock moaned. He closed his eyes. "This is the only thing, the only thing I want," he whispered.

It was more than I was expecting, and my hand slipped. I found myself moaning along with him as our dicks touched and slid together. With whatever presence of mind I had left, I rubbed my pre-cum into my palm and slicked it between our rubbing skin. It wouldn't have mattered though, at least not to me; even if I had started outright bleeding I probably wouldn't have pulled away until I was finished.

I realized that Sherlock was speaking.

"Ahhh, John, John, yes John, don't stop, yes John…" He seemed to have latched onto the Yes, John thing. I hoped he didn't make it a habit; if he said it in public I was liable to start rubbing myself.

His eyes were closed and his head was tilted back, absorbed by the sensations. With great concentration, I reached up and took his chin in my hand again. His eyes fluttered open and he blinked at me.

"Well, Sherlock?" I panted. "Are you bored now?"

At that moment, his pupils dilated and he cried out, "JOHN!" so loud that it was only a matter of time before someone came looking. Still, I was nowhere near unselfish enough to stop; I rubbed my hands in his cum and rubbed it over myself, so close…

Then Sherlock dropped to his knees. He gazed at my dick, covered in his own cum. I just looked at him. I knew that there was a reason I should have told him to stop but I didn't. Couldn't. I just watched.

He opened his mouth and swallowed my cock, all the way to the hilt, in one clean motion. I'm pretty sure I screamed – maybe his name, maybe nothing. But as he bobbed up and down, choking a little, I began to hear myself again.

"Oh God, oh God, Sherlock, oh God yes, yes, that's right, don't stop, don't ever stop, oh oh oh oh - " My hands clenched around fistfuls of his black hair. He winced, but I couldn't stop. I pushed myself deeper into his mouth, aching for him to swallow every last drop…

"_Sherlock_," I groaned as I came. He stiffened in surprise, but I rocked my hips back and forth a couple more times, and I felt him swallow around my cock. God, that was sexy. If it hadn't been for the immediate need to get dressed…

Responsibility hit me like a wall the instant I thought of it. It was one thing for people to see me like this, but Sherlock was quite another. He wouldn't know how to handle it.

Telling him how wonderful he was, how amazing it had been, I coaxed his cock back into his pants and buttoned up his shirt. Sherlock still had the same dazed expression on his face.

I had just zippered my pants when a smug, satisfied voice echoed through the lab.

"Well, my my my. Would you look at this? I knew there was a reason you hung out with the freak. Is it good, Watson? It would turn my stomach, to be honest, but then I never understood why a relatively normal man would spend all his free time with a psychopath."

"High-functioning sociopath," Sherlock corrected automatically, his voice still thick. The grin on the man's face widened.

"Anderson," I spat. I pulled my shirt straight, but it was no use. Assuming that he had just come in – and there was really no telling, I hadn't exactly been in a fit state of mind – this was still more than enough to damn us. We looked like we'd just shagged. And there were very few reasonable excuses for that.

I chanced a look at Sherlock. His face was clouded, angry; the way he got when he wanted to hide how he felt.

"Well, I'll just be off," Anderson chuckled. "I have several bets I need to collect on." He turned and strode off, whistling.

My stomach clenched. I hated the man, hated him for ruining something that had been so incredible just a few moments ago. Now it was tainted; dirty. Not for me, but… I knew how Sherlock would think.

"Sherlock, stay here." I pushed him back into the desk without thinking and moved by.

"John."

"I'll be right back."

"John, I…"

I turned around and smiled at him. I hoped it was reassuring. "Two minutes, Sherlock. I'll be right back." Then I disappeared around the corner and jogged after Anderson.

He hadn't gone far; was right around the next corner in fact. He was humming to himself and snapping his fingers and I was surprised he didn't do a twirl. It was so easy to sneak up on him that it was almost insulting.

The blow took him by surprise. I grabbed his shoulder and slammed it into the wall, twisting at the same time.

"ARGH!" he shouted. His eyes focused on me. "Watson, what in God's name do you think you're - "

"You," I said, my voice filled with as much menace as I was capable of. "You are going to sit there and listen to me, and I am going to tell you a couple of things." Anderson struggled against my arm, but he wasn't going anywhere. I kept in shape these days – partially the military training, and partially because I never knew what Sherlock was going to land us in.

"You don't like Sherlock Holmes. That's fine. Most people don't, in fact. But." I stared him down, eyes boring into him. "If you try to hurt him, I will hunt you down, and I will make you wish you'd never been born."

"You're mad!" Anderson yelped. He sounded genuinely afraid.

I raised my eyebrows. "I don't see how that's any of your business," I leered at him. No harm in reinforcing the idea. I released his shoulder, digging my fingers in painfully before finally letting go. I back away with a smile.

"I'll… I'll keep your ruddy secret," Anderson said. For Heaven's sake, he looked like he was about to cry. "I don't even care, really. It was just a bit of fun."

I scowled. "Remember that." I watched Anderson scamper away before trotting back to the lab.

"All sorted…" I looked around. I was speaking to an empty room. I sighed and leaned against the operating table. Of course. When had Sherlock ever listened to me?

Except for fifteen minutes ago, that was. My blood pressure rose at the thought. Sherlock had listened beautifully then.

I stared vacantly at the empty inside of the lab. I wasn't sure exactly what I was going to do, but I knew one thing – this time, I wasn't waiting four weeks to talk to Sherlock again.


End file.
